Marked
by tealeeches
Summary: A young tribal is captured by the Legion and taken in as a servant by the Frumentarii's cold leader, who really isn't as ruthless as he seems to be. Slow burn, Vulpes/tribal OC. Mila is mine. Vulpes and FNV belong to Bethesda. Rated M for strong language, potential triggers, violence/gore, and eventual adult content.
1. Chapter 1

She remained quiet and composed in the crowd. Women and children surrounded her, chattering, crying, praying for their lives. She was terrified, but no one could tell. As far as they knew, she was accepting her fate with poise and serenity. Quickly, the group was ushered into neat rows in the middle of a courtyard. Men in red armor began to crowd around, examining their newly obtained goods, silently placing their bets on the human cattle. One of the men grabbed a young woman beside the girl, sneering and groping. She shrieked and resisted, despite threats of death. Laughing loudly, the cretin drew his pistol and painted the side of the girl's face with the woman's blood. She flinched ever so slightly, blood splattering across her face and in her hair. She could have sworn a piece of the woman's skull had scratched her cheek.

A whisper traveled into her ear, _"Oh, what I'd do to you."_

She continued to look ahead toward the opening she was so conveniently placed near. The man continued to ramble on about the heinous acts he'd perform on the girl, who was becoming more annoyed than scared. Seemingly from out of nowhere, a smooth raspy voice called out into the swarm of legionnaires that had descended upon the rows. The sick men were silenced and suddenly dissipated, allowing the owner of the voice to approach the center with ease. The teenage girl took one glance at him: never in her short sixteen years had she been so afraid of a man. He loomed over most of the soldiers, lean and powerful. He wore a hood that looked like a coyote pelt and goggles over his eyes. He wasn't as old as some of the legates, but clearly had superior power over the men who continued to examine the captives.

In the meantime, another legionnaire had joined the one that had been groping and whispering stories of rape and murder into the girl's ear.

_"She's not as scared as the others."_

_"She's dumber."_

_"That's good."_

_"Or, she's smarter . . . she's not gonna last long."_

_"I'm at least having my own way with her first."_

She swallowed hard. Her body had been made into a piece of property that was to be used until it wasn't wanted anymore. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then, a slap. Then a bark.

"Who told any of you bastards you could just claim these girls as your own?" The strange man yelled at the two men who had began to abuse her. "If you wish to be fed to dogs, continue with your erratic behavior."

The two soldiers quickly scurried away, leaving the now disgusted, terrified slave to her thoughts. Soon enough, she found the man with the dog hood approaching her, pulling his goggles down around his neck. She grew restless and shifted on her feet. A heavy, hot fog began to form around her. The frumentarius was so close, she could count the freckles on his face, the specks of gold in his blue eyes. He leaned down a bit to match her own height.

"How old are you?" he asked quietly. For a split second, he didn't seem so menacing.

The captured girl chirped back, "I . . . I'm sixteen . . . sir." Cold sweat created an uncomfortable sensation on her back. She kept her face down, until the frumentarius' careful, slender hand gently grasped her chin and tilted her face upward to examine her. He tilted her head a bit, from one side to another, brushing over the red mark the abusive soldier had given her with his thumb. He silently noted every angle of her face, every little mole.

"Look at me," he whispered. Out of terror, her dark eyes met with his, widening at the sound of his voice. He smirked slightly, shaking his head at her apparent reaction.

"I'll take her." He said, standing tall once more. She didn't know what this meant at first, but she figured she was going to be some kind of whore slave to this man. She began planning a suicidal escape as he lead her from the crowd. Hope seeped into her veins as they neared the man's homestead.

_"A garden. Maybe I'll be sleeping outside and ignored,"_ she thought, examining the outside of the run-down, post apocalyptic dwelling.

Much to her dismay, he opened the door, allowing her inside before himself. She sighed, a knot forming within her stomach. The door closed behind them. Inside, there was more open space than she had originally thought there to be. The kitchen, living area, and dining room were combined into one conglomerate area with the entrance at it's center. Clutter in the form of books, papers, bottles, and other miscellaneous items decorated the large room. A short hallway lead away from the area to, what she presumed, was a bedroom and a bathroom. The man motioned for her to sit down. She obliged, carefully placing herself on the dining chair. The man sat in front of her across the table and removed his coyote hood. He ruffled the mop of blond hair that sat on his head. They sat in silence for roughly twenty minutes. She refused to look at him, instead fiddling with the drawstring on her jacket's hood.

The frumentarius spoke softly, "What's your name, girl?"

She froze, not knowing how to react. Still refusing to look in his general direction, she responded quietly, giving her tribal name, "A . . .Altsoba, sir."

She didn't like her name. She hated it, in fact. She _hated_ sharing it, preferring to be called 'girl.' Her name meant war, and it was all too ironic that she'd be captured by such a militant group of people.

She mustered up enough courage to glance across from her, but he had disappeared into a cabinet. For a while, he rummaged and fumbled with whatever he was doing.

_"Kill me already. Do whatever it is you need to do and kill me."_

A plate of fruit and a bottle of soda was carefully placed in front of her. She glared at it, not wanting to accept the generosity she thought was just a ploy to gain her trust.

"Eat. It's not poisoned. You are famished."

By now, she was shaking badly. She couldn't grasp what was happening. She was whisked away by the only kind person she had come in contact with since her capture, and she wasn't sure his hospitality would last.

The man sneered, "If you're not going to eat, we might as well go over the rules here."

Altsoba shifted, holding back her urge to cry.

"First, and foremost, you do as I say, when I say." He took a bite out of an apple he had plucked from the bowl on the tabled, rotating it in his hand, examining every inch of the red skin as he had done to her. "Secondly," he swallowed, "you are to remain within the perimeter of the fence. You do not venture outside of it without my exclusive permission. _Are you listening?_"

"Yes, sir," she sniffled a little, rubbing her eye.

He smiled, "You do not take orders from anyone but myself. If I have entrusted you with someone, then you'll be under their authority until further notice. As for sleeping arrangements, there is a bed and dresser in a separate for your own use. However, you can sleep on the sofa or floor, or with me, if you'd like."

She silently nodded, acknowledging what he was saying. She wouldn't grace his nights with her presence. She didn't know if he'd use her as a whore or comfort her as she tossed and turned. She'd rather sleep alone.

She peered up through her eyelashes and the veil of dark hair that hid her face. The man sat, casually taking bites from the apple, occasionally looking over at her. He frowned, but continued.

"I'd like you to be up at least and hour before I rise, which is generally around seven. I expect breakfast to be made and set out."

"Wha . . . what should I make?" she mumbled. He heard her.

"Anything, unless I've specified what I'd like."

Olive looked up and around her, with some courage, brushing her hair behind her left ear, shifting in her seat.

"Really," he continued, seeing that she was confused, "_anything_. The same goes for dinner. Lunch is whatever you'd like. I typically will not be present. Lastly, _keep the house clean and in order._ As you've probably noticed, I am neither very good at organizing, nor am I hear enough to do so."

They sat in silence for a while. She didn't touch the fruit he'd placed in front of her for that duration of time. She could feel his eyes on her, memorizing the map of her face.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," he remarked, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as he eyed her.

"I'm sorry." A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, which she quickly disposed of with her sleeve. She could feel her emotions surging and changing rapidly and without warning.

_"Eat."_ A command. She struggled to obey, but managed to slide a piece of apple into her mouth. It was the most difficult action she had performed all day. Walking miles in the desert heat was a vacation compared to this. "I'm not leaving until you're plate's empty."

She flinched as he took the soda from in front of her and uncapped it. The stinging feeling in her throat was growing each time she looked up and saw he was watching her.

"I'm not going to hurt you or have you lashed to a cross."

His reassurance didn't change anything. She rubbed her eyes for the eighteenth time. She hadn't slept for close to forty-eight hours, and now she was being forced to eat. The frumentarius finally gave up, stood, and left down the hallway. The girl couldn't believe that she'd out-waited him. Water cut on from one of the rooms. She quickly got to work cleaning and putting things away, as he had specified. She occasionally passed the table and shoved a piece of fruit in her mouth. She familiarized herself with the main room as she put away books and newspapers. She noticed the frumentarius had a few medical books, as she skimmed through their pages before setting them in their places.

"I see you've gotten straight to work," the man praised, wandering back into the room. He was now dressed in a pair of cotton pants and a t-shirt. "It seems you'll do just fine around here. I've been thinking, about your name . . . I'm not sure it suits you very well."

The girl felt brave as she finished washing her plate, "Neither do I, sir."

The blond haired man smiled. He was much younger than she thought, maybe in his late twenties. "Perhaps 'Mila.' Is that suitable?"

_He had asked her if she liked something._ She knew this wasn't how normal slaves were treated. They had to take what was handed to them without question. Confused, yet satisfied with her new name, she replied, "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, Mila, before you go about doing anything else," he continued, beckoning her toward him. She cautiously responded, following his lead. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flipped it open. "Take off your jacket."

She began to shake again, but obliged, letting the brown, tattered hoodie fall onto the floor. He placed one hand on her shoulder, holding her in place, and set to work with the blade. Mila began to cry silently, though she could barely feel the blade digging into her chest, just below her collarbone. The ordeal was over just as quickly as it had started, to her surprise. She looked down at herself. A bloodied 'V' was carved into her skin. She looked up to him, her tears now drying, as if to ask him what he did.

"It is a reminder to you, and everyone else, that _you are not simply a slave girl_. You're _my_ servant, and only take orders from _me_," he explained, folding the blade and returning it to his pocket. He used his palm to dry Mila's face, smirking again, "Don't cry. It wasn't that bad, was it?"

She shook her head and looked down at her feet.

"Pick up your jacket and go bathe. You may use whatever is available to wash yourself with. I can't have a grimy girl running around doing errands."

Quickly, she scooped the near rag and turned to find the bathroom. Before she headed down the hallway, she turned and looked at the man. He had positioned himself on the old sofa and was now drinking a soda of his own. He appeared almost childish compared to the way he looked when he'd first addressed her. "Sir?"

He turned his head slightly to peer at her and raised his eyebrows, bottle still pressed to his lips.

"May I ask you a question?"

"Yes. Questions are welcomed."

"What is your name?"

He was thrown off, in awe at his own failure to introduce himself. He smiled. "Vulpes."


	2. Chapter 2

Mila had tossed and turned all night, waking up every few hours despite her sheer exhaustion. Her room wasn't much, but it was her own, given to her out of generosity. The bed was nothing more than a small mattress set on a metal frame. She had a small dresser and nightstand as well. To her, it was pretty luxurious compared to the tents her tribe lived in. She had a few pillows and blankets as well. Morning was at the horizon, oranges and yellows taking over the sky. She groaned and turned to her side, away from the window. The welts on her back, now scabbed over, cracked a bit, sending dull pain throughout her body. At her time of capture, she'd tried to run, and she had managed to give one of the legionnaires a black eye. This resulted in her being tied to a post and lashed twenty times or so: she wasn't counting.

Slowly, she managed her way into a sitting position, and glanced around as her room brightened. She popped her back and put on her jacket, but not before lightly brushing over the tender mark carved into her skin. Oddly, she smiled as she set herself to work making her bed. She then tip-toed into the kitchen, making sure not to wake her owner. She rummaged through cupboards and the fridge, unsure of what to make. She pulled a strange egg out from the refrigerator. It was small and white, like nothing she'd seen before. She was used to seeing leathery nightstalker eggs. This one was nearly a perfect sphere and had a hard shell, and there were more stored away. Excitedly, she grabbed two and quickly figured out how to open the shells to allow the inner parts to flow out into a bowl. Quickly, she whisked a bit of brahmin milk into the eggs and poured the mixture into a heated skillet.

Vulpes was now waking. He flung his covers onto the floor, as he usually did, and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. He scratched the back of his head, hair sticking up in all different directions. He rubbed his eyes as he stood, staggering out of his room. He glanced into Mila's room, pleased with the effort she had made to make her bed. In the kitchen area, he slumped into a chair and groggily watched Mila finish cooking.

"S . . . sorry I wasn't finished when you awoke," she mumbled, sliding the plain omelette onto a plate and placing it on the table. She shuffled back to the counter and began tackling the dishes she'd used.

"As long as you're preparing it. I'd rather not wake to cold food," he replied. "You're not eating?"

"Uh . . . n-no. I'm doing dishes, sir," she squeaked, confused. Vulpes rose from the table and carried his plate with him.

"You ate once yesterday. I know you're nervous. I was too," he said in a very soothing way as he cut his breakfast in half, scooping the half onto another plate. Mila didn't know what to say or do.

"What do you mean?" she asked, sitting at the table with her plate, poking what she'd made with a fork still unsure of the man's intentions.

"I was captured as well," he explained with a mouthful of egg, "forced to watch my parents die while lashed to crosses, beaten, broken down, and now I'm here."

She nodded and asked, "What . . . kind of eggs are these?"

"They're from chickens," he laughed, "You don't know what a chicken is, do you, girl?"

She shook her head now, thinking of how dumb she sounded.

"They don't look exactly how they do in books before the war, but they're sedentary birds that we breed for food: meat and eggs."

Chickens. She'd never seen one, but she wanted to now. They couldn't be too big. Vulpes quickly finished what she'd made and set his plate into the sink. He retired to his room, changing into his uniform: tunic, vest, armor, boots. He grabbed his hood and goggles and wandered back into the main room. Mila was now finishing up the dishes.

"You won't be needing anything, will you?" Vulpes asked, positioning the coyote hood over his hair. This confused Mila more than anything else he had said or done. The blond studied her, watching her expression change as she processed the words.

"No, I don't think so," she paused and thought about his words again, "May I read a few of your books, sir?"

"I see no harm. I will be back around sunset. Remember to have dinner prepared, at least. Make my bed as well. Other than that, I have no other errands or requests. You're welcome to do as you'd like for the rest of today. I give you permission, for today, to explore a bit outside. If you do, _keep a low profile_, don't interfere with any official business or go near the recruit camp."

He slightly nodded at her and left through the front door. Mila still didn't know what to think of her fortunate situation. She paced for a while before cautiously venturing into Vulpes' room. It was extremely cluttered, as if a strong wind had blown through and thrown its contents around. He hadn't said to organize, so she neatly made his bed, noting the spicy, yet somewhat floral scent he left on his sheets.

Mila then returned to the living area of the house and happily combed through the bookshelf.

_"I can read anything I want,"_ she whispered to herself, content with the volumes she'd pulled. _"I can do whatever I want today."_

She sat on the sofa and began to read, taking in each paragraph, sentence, word, and letter. Latin. She knew the Legion could speak this old, lost language. Now, she could learn herself. She could learn to understand what they would talk about. Maybe she could teach others. She could understand some medical words that she failed to find meaning in. She daydreamed, probably more than she had in years, and she slipped into a deep sleep.

* * *

**I do not have any clue why there are chickens. But, they're pretty hardy animals and I can see them surviving a nuclear apocalypse with just a few mutations. It also just seems completely plausible for a large tribe to be raising domesticated animals for food to feed large numbers. I'd expect them to also have various gardens and fields.**


	3. Chapter 3

The sun had just set when Vulpes entered the house. All of the lights were off. He quickly flicked on a lamp. Mila was still fast asleep on the sofa with a book splayed out on her stomach. Vulpes shook his head and rolled his eyes: half in disappointment, half in amusement. He rid himself of his hood and goggles, setting them on the table. Mila stirred, and upon seeing him in the room, she shot straight up, book falling to the floor.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, sir," she repeated over and over, wearing the line out. She stumbled into the kitchen and dug through the cabinets and fridge, pulling out a pot and pan. She scrambled her resources as quickly as she could while a knot formed in her stomach.

"Stop," Vulpes commanded calmly. Her movements ceased and she leaned over the sink slightly, trying to stop herself from sobbing out loud. "Come here."

She turned and walked toward him, head hung in shame. She shook and wrapped her arms around herself. "I . . . I'm s . . . sorr . . .y . . ."

Vulpes hushed her and placed his hands on her shoulders. _"Look at me."_

She tilted her head up slightly, intimidated and worried.

The frumentarius continued, "This is neither a warning, nor a punishment. _It is a simple fact._ When I ask you to do something, you do it. _Understand?_ If it happens again, I may not be so kind." He paused, still staring her down, "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Yes. No. Some," Mila quickly uttered. She had been terrified that he'd do something to her in her sleep: kill her, have his way with her, and he hadn't. She was lonely and afraid and confused. Here was this man, who was kind to her, and he asked her to complete such a small, simple task, and she failed.

_"Did you, or did you not?"_

"A little, sir. I'm sorry. I'm just afraid and confused and I don't know what's going on!" she spurted, now gushing with pure emotion. Tears rolled down her face, she couldn't stop them: she was nearly immobilized. Vulpes' thumb pressed into the mark he'd given her, purposely reminding her that she belong to him and she was to obey his every command.

He sighed and slid his hand down her arms before dropping them to his side. One hand returned to her, cupping her face and examining it again. "We'll have to get you a clock or timer. Something of the like, at least for now. You're, first of all, going to have to readjust your cycle: rise early in the morning, and retire after dinner. Secondly, you are going to have to learn to trust me. You may resume what you were doing."

Mila quickly and quietly returned to cooking, Vulpes watching her every move. She didn't really know what she was making other than noodles and some kind of sauce and cubed Cram. She set a plate in front of the frumentarius, and then a small bowl for herself. She poked at it, but didn't eat. She couldn't: she found herself being her own punisher.

"You know why you're here with me, right?" Vulpes asked with food in his mouth, again. He definitely had the worst manners Mila had ever witnessed.

"No, sir."

"You don't have to chide me with_ 'sir'_ all the time. Anyhow, that recruit you decided to punch? He has a broken eye socket. Severely bruised. Concussion as well. You took quite a bit out of him. He's quite shocked that a woman could have such power when irritated. He's even questioning his own masculinity! It's quite hilarious, really."

"But why am I here?"

"Ah, yes. Originally they wanted to have you crucified for injuring the man so severely. But, with Lord Caesar's blessing, I was allowed to decide for myself whether to have you crucified or to take you as a servant. And now we're here."

"I don't get it . . ."

He smirked and explained, "Though you are just a servant, you have a great potential to be an excellent ally to the Frumentarii: Caesar's intelligence agents. I am their leader, you see. You completely took out a recruit with one hit. As far as we know, he may be permanently blinded in that one eye. It was impressive. If anything, you could be trained as a healer in the field, or even a spy if you think that'd suit you. Then again, if neither are appealing, you can remain as only my servant. The choice is yours. I personally didn't think it'd be right to murder someone who is so able bodied and fiery when provoked."

"I thought the Legion looked down upon women though."

"We look down upon degenerates. Unintelligent people. Whores, gamblers, criminals, drug addicts. But, if a woman is willing to be integrated into our society, she can become just as feared and respected , though many of the recruits will disagree. They've only had the pleasure to lay with slave girls and whores. Women are not necessarily looked down upon, but more often left unnoticed. Not many are true to Caesar because of his teachings. Even fewer ask to join the ranks, even if promised a fair wage to complete small tasks that a secretary would. The few that have been given jobs have been dispatched to various locations to serve as sentries. Sometimes, being overlooked can be a good thing."

"Maybe women would want to become a part of this society if _they were asked_ rather than than captured?"

"Perhaps. Only time will tell. But, if what you say would be true, maybe agreeing to my generous offer would entice them to do so without being asked or captured."

"May I think about it for awhile?" Mila said quietly. "This is all just happening too quickly. Four days ago, my village was attacked, burned down, and I was captured. My family was massacred. I was lashed, almost crucified, taken in by you, and finally treated like a human being. _And now, I'm being offered a position as an ally to you._ I . . . don't know what to do."

"Understood," Vulpes stood and dropped his plate into the sink. "When you've made your decision, let me know. Please, take your time. I don't want you rushing into something you may not be able to handle."

He sat back down and beckoned Mila to eat. Calm now, she busied herself with twirling noodles around her fork and daintily shoving them in her mouth. She no longer cared that he was watching her, though she could avoid it if she ate at the same time he did.

"What were you reading?"

"It was a book about Latin, I think?" she pondered, the old language still wrapping around her brain.

"Say something for me. _"Hello."_

She thought about the command, and then replied, "There are . . . a few ways, aren't there? _Avete?_"

"One of the ways, yes. The most common is, _"ave,"_ which can also used as a goodbye, as in, "Goodbye forever."

Mila smiled, "I'd like to learn more. It's a beautiful language."

_"Ego potest auxilium, si opus fuerit,"_ he said, the words rolling off of his tongue, smoothly into Mila's hears. Her face reddened, not knowing why she was embarrassed or what he had said. This made him laugh, just a bit.

"I don't know what you're saying."

"If you need any help, I can offer assistance."

"Oh. Uhm, thank you, I guess . . ." Mila stood and began to quietly do the dishes. Vulpes still sat at the table, messing with his goggles. He acted like a child sometimes, and yet, he was feared and respected for being cold and ruthless. As far as Mila knew, she may be the only one witnessing this behavior.

"Come. And bring your book." Vulpes beckoned after she'd dried her hands. He lead her down the hallway and into his room. She wasn't sure what his intentions were at first, but she was slightly calmed when he dug around his dresser and pulled out a shirt and a pair of shorts. "Bathe, and meet me back here."

She scurried into the bathroom, quickly stripping and stepping under the water. She washed thoroughly with rosewater soap, dried off, and dressed in the clean clothes Vulpes had given her.

"Suitable?" he inquired as she returned. He sat on the bed in the cotton pants and shirt he wore the evening before with his legs folded, book opened and in front of him.

"Yes. Thank you."

"Come. Sit." He noticed her hesitation. _"You have to trust me, Mila."_

With that, she sat in front of him. He leaned back and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles.

"See? That wasn't so hard? I'm not going to force you to do anything unpleasant. Now, if you will, read for me."

She opened the book and did as he asked. She poured over pages and pages of Latin vocabulary, grammar, and pronunciation. Vulpes offered his help when she needed it and corrected any pronunciation or grammatical mistakes. She found herself enjoying listening to the frumentarius speak this foreign language and explain different aspects of it to her. She wasn't tiring, but she could tell he was. She kept reading, and he eventually fell asleep. She inspected the sleeping man: he really had no ill intentions toward her, though she sat there, on his bed, with nothing but a book between them. She was relieved, and decided to continue reading throughout the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sassy Mila is sassy. Vulpes sees the girl who took a Legionnaire out of service with one hit. **

**Secondly, thank you guys so much for the positive responses and the tremendous amount of views in the past few days!**

* * *

Mila woke up much too late. The sun already beamed brightly through the window. She'd fallen asleep with her back propped against the wall, book on her lap. Now, she found herself sprawled on her side next to the man who owned her. She didn't want to wake him, but she was afraid that she'd make the same mistake she had made the evening before. She calmly began to rise, steadily to not cause too much of a commotion. Vulpes grunted and pulled her toward him, burying his face in his hair. He hadn't had such close human contact in ages, and he enjoyed it: the scent of the soap she used, her warmth. He sighed contently.

Mila was now getting frustrated. She needed to get up. She needed to make breakfast.

"Sir? Vulpes? Can I please get up?" she grunted, trying to pull herself away. His grip around her waist tightened.

"Why? I have nowhere to be today. Neither do you . . ." he said sleepily.

"I have to make breakfast anyway." She tried to get up, failing again. She wasn't . . . uncomfortable. He wasn't violating and claiming her, or really even trying. She just gave up, and Vulpes was soon back to snoring very softly, face still buried in the back of her neck. He was like a child at times, craving closeness and interaction. As he slept, his grip became loose, and his hand wandered to her waist. Now, Mila was impatient a just a little nervous. Maybe he had that one condition she'd read about so long ago where he reenacted his dreams. No. He wasn't making any other movements. His hand moved to her hip.

"Vulpes!" she squeaked. The man shot up into a sitting position, dazed and completely unaware.

"Huh?" he managed, scratching the back of his head.

"Nothing. Sorry." Mila sat up, hair tangled, shirt falling off one shoulder.

"Did I do something?"

"No. Nothing. May I get up now?"

_"What did I do, girl?"_ He growled, still half asleep.

" Your—your hand was on my hip. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted so abruptly."

Vulpes had no reply. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Stupid. He wasn't even conscious and he'd done something stupid to ruin the small amount of trust she had.

"It's okay," she reassured, standing with him, the book they'd been hovering over in hand.

"None of my men touched you, did they?"

"Oh, no. I'm—not used to this, I guess."

He nodded. "Shall we have lunch?"

"Yeah . . . what time is it?" Mila asked as she followed him.

"Probably around noon. Sit."

She obeyed. Vulpes gently tossed a cola to her. She caught and uncapped it. "Shouldn't I be doing this?"

"Don't worry about it," he grumbled, turning on the stove.

Mila scowled and stood up. "Would you _please_ let me."

"No."

"Sir. Vulpes, if I am not allowed to do these things, how am I a servant?"

His voice darkened, "Maybe I want to? _You do as I say, when I say. Didn't we have this conversation yesterday when you so blatantly forgot your duties?_"

"You wouldn't let me leave this morning!"

She wanted to kill him. Rip his throat out, bathe in his blood. She stormed into her own room, leaving the cola and book. She was very much a sixteen-year-old girl, despite her captivity and servitude. If he wouldn't let her do anything, she wouldn't. She'd obey and sulk, and think of all the ways she could ruin him with a kitchen knife. Vulpes interrupted her plotting, flinging the door open and just standing there, propped in the doorway, arms crossed and looking smug as ever with that malicious, seductive smirk. Mila's eyes narrowed as they entered a stand-off. She had won this game before: they both knew that she'd win again if Vulpes didn't speak up. He rolled his eyes, ashamed at the stupidity of it all.

"You didn't answer my question, girl," he sneered.

"Yes, we did have this conversation. And you also asked me to be an ally to you and your Frumentarii. You asked me to choose. _You said I could choose_, and today I chose to be a servant and you completely disregarded my attempt. Now, _you_ decide. Do you want a 'stupid woman' you can order around, _vel optas Frumentarius_?"

She was fierce all of a sudden, but she sat at the edge of her bed: legs crossed, elbow on her knee, chin on her palm. This was the girl Vulpes' men described when they had captured her. She wasn't backing down now, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. She was bold and really quite menacing under her soft, innocent coating of flesh.

"How late were you up reading?" he snapped.

"Late enough to understand most of everything you say, and to know how to respond when necessary."

"You better watch it now, then"

"You're not answering my question."

"I am not obligated to."

"If it's so important that you'd pluck me out of a massive group of 'stupid women,' then you would be."

"You are infuriating."

"And that's why I'm here, is it not?"

Vulpes grunted and took the loss, "Yes. I presume so."

"Then which is it?"

"We'll talk later," he responded as he turned from her.

_"No."_

Stunned, he responded, "Very well, girl. If you're going to be an infuriating bitch, I think it'd be best if you finished up with reading that book."

"I was going to anyhow. You still haven't told me what you want of me. You're being deceiving."

"That's what I do in this line of work. That is what you will have to learn as well."

"So you want a Frumentarius?"

He examined her with soft eyes. She was a piece of work, and she had the words 'blood lust' written all over her. He found it—intriguing. Attractive, maybe. He responded in a hushed and gentle tone, "Yes. But I'll have you know that you are still under _my_ command. You do _exactly_ what I say. Do you understand, Mila?"

"Yes, sir," she piped, half sarcastically. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll finish what you started."

As she passed Vulpes, he grabbed her by the arm and violently turned her to face him. He traced his index finger over the 'V' that was carved into her pale skin. _"You are under my command still."_

"May I?" she looked up at him, returning to her innocent exterior. She knew he couldn't say,_ "No."_

"Very well."

"You're confusing."

"As are you. Resume your duties."


	5. Chapter 5

"How is the girl?" Caesar asked Vulpes inquisitively, pacing his tent.

"Well. A bit feisty," he replied.

"That was given when I first gave you the okay to take her. How, though?"

"Bit of a . . . confrontation the other day. Nothing physical. _Petty_, I say."

"Has she accepted your offer?"

"Mostly. I'm sure she has her doubts. In due time, it'll set in. She has a flame in her that is unmatched by any of my men."

"She does understand that she is not joining actual ranks. She is merely an asset."

_An asset._ Was that really all she was? No: much more than that. The word infuriated Vulpes, but he simply nodded and continued. "I presume she does. But, if we put her in the ring with a few dogs, she'd have them slaughtered and presented to us on a buffet."

The aging leader laughed wholly and agreed. "Put her against our strongest Centurion and she'd be all but dead. He'd just have to rub her the wrong way."

"How is that recruit, by the way?"

"Able to walk about. His pride is mostly hurt. Blind in that one eye and still swollen."

Vulpes chuckled, "Crucify him. Hurt pride will get him nowhere."

"Of course. We'll see how he heals. It may not be in our interests to execute him."

"Put him in the pit with the girl. He'll either seek revenge or cower."

"That, is actually a brilliant idea."

"I'll be sure to put your praise on my resume," Vulpes joked. "Thank you, my Lord."

"What is her name? Has she told you?"

"Yes, in fact. It was some tribal name, _Altsoba_, I believe. I have since given her the name Mila."

"I'd say Altsoba would fit her more. I remember reading somewhere that it means "war". But, by all means, if that is what you prefer to call her, so be it."

"She prefers it as well. She seemed to have a distaste for her tribal name."

"That's different. She prefers it? Slaves are usually resisting for a good while before they develop preferences and the like."

"I see her more as an indentured servant. I may even cut her loose if she proves her worth. She seems to want to learn our ways and be integrated into our society."

"Really now?"

"She's proven to be very intelligent and highly opinionated. She learned nearly a years worth of Latin in one night. It's astonishing."

"She's much like you when you first started out."

With that, Vulpes shrugged. Maybe so. He couldn't really remember who he was before the Legion engulfed his tribe. "Prepare the poor sap for tomorrow. I don't care what condition he is in. I shall take my leave now, my Lord."

Outside of the tent, the moon rose high in the night sky, Mojave dust turning it a pale orange. He briskly walked back to his homestead, only stopping to make small talk with other Legionnaires. He was mildly worried about what he was getting Mila into, but it certainly wasn't anything she couldn't handle. He opened the door to his home. Mila was sitting at the table, still pouring over, now two books, of Latin.

"Supper is on the counter," she said casually. Vulpes nodded and removed his hood and goggles before sitting with his meal.

"Did you eat?" he asked as he cut into the slab of Brahmin steak his servant had made.

"Yes, a bit. I've been preoccupied."

"I see that. Mila, I have a . . . proposition for you."

"Another?"

"Yes. It may be of interest to you."

She quickly closed her books after marking the pages she was on and intently listened.

Vulpes started, "Remember that profligate recruit you bruised?"

"Yes, sir?"

"How would you like to finish him off. I'm assuming he wronged you in one way or another."

The girl thought for a second, taking a quick glance back at what had happened the day her village was raided and burned. "I accept."

"Just like that?"

"Yes."

"No questions?"

"None."

He was surprised at how easily she had agreed to take on the recruit, who was much bigger than her. He was now beginning to think he'd made a huge mistake. "You do understand the risks involved wi—"

"Yes. I do. Believe me. He'll die by my hand."

"Well, then—"

"He will," she leaned over the table, piercing him with her dark eyes. "I'm assuming he hasn't yet agreed to this either."

"I'm sure he has. Keep it fair. He'll probably be unarmed."

"I don't think so. Knowing how these men operate, he'll probably smuggle something to try and gain the upper hand."

Vulpes was definitely beginning to regret his decision. _"Mila."_

"Vulpes. I am not going to be murdered by some ignorant fool."

"No weapons."

"Fine. I will come unarmed. But if he shows up with a knife, I will not hesitate to take it from him and decapitate him."

"Very well."

Mila stood and pushed in her chair. "I am retiring for the night. Tomorrow should be fairly busy."

With that, she left him at the table.

* * *

The morning had come and gone quickly. Now, Vulpes was leading her to the pit in the middle of the growing city of the Legion. Military men and slaves alike were gathering around, wondering who would emerge in the end as the victor. The recruit who had so violently mistreated Mila was already standing at one end of the circle, pacing, sweaty hand clasped behind his back. She eyed him. The entire side of his face was kissed with a dark bruise, his eye half shut in pain and watering badly. Nervous.

"Do not do anything brash and stupid," Vulpes whispered. Mila nodded in response, grinning as she studied the man in the pit. He was weak.

People booed and shouted insults and praises at both. Legionnaires gawked at the servant girl, wearing nothing but a dress and boots, her hair kept in a loose bun. She was guided through the crowd and left on the other side of the pit. She grew more furious at every glance she shot the recruit. Caesar, himself, watched from his perch outside of his tent. He gave the signal to begin. Quickly and strategically, Mila dashed toward the man, the skirt of her pink, stained dress flying behind her. She tackled him to the ground and pulled a knife from her boot and stabbed him. Once. Twice. Three times, bits of flesh sticking to the knife. Her hair fell out of her pins and flew around her as she moved. The recruit screamed and struggled. No one stopped her. Caesar laughed in approval. She lost count of how many times her blade dug into the man.

"You . . . _bastard_ . . . fucking . . . bastard," she chanted over and over as the man squirmed beneath her on the dirt. She leaned over a few times to whisper sick insults in Latin into his ear, making him red with madness as he slowly died. Sick of him struggling, she buried the knife into his neck. Blood spurted out in a glorious fountain and covered Mila, soaking into the fibers of her dress. She continued to stab the corpse as people egged her on, until Vulpes intervened and pulled her off of him.

"I told you to come unarmed. You deliberately disobeyed my orders," he scolded, holding firmly onto her upper arms, bruising them in the process.

"Do you think I'd let him do the same to me?"

_"__He had no weapon!"_

"Yes," she pulled away from the Frumentarius, letting his nails scrape her arms, and bent down to pull a straight razor from the corpse's pocket, "he did."

She tossed it onto the dirt and spat on the body as she examined her work. He was, for the most part, unrecognizable. She herself was covered in his blood. _Vulpes could barely recognize her._ Her hair was tangled and splayed around her face, trailing down to her lower back. She showed no shame at the murder she committed as she pushed through the crowd, with a strange and blood thirsty glimmer residing in her eyes. Calm. Collected. The crowd moved for her, whisper and staring. There wasn't an inch of her milky skin that remained untouched by crimson.

_She killed. She was feared. And, she was beautiful._


	6. Chapter 6

Mila, once out of the crowd, sprinted for her residence. Vulpes struggled to keep up with her, though he was far more physically capable than the girl. Her dress clung to her thin frame. She exhausted herself, stumbling through the door, leaving hand prints on the weathered wood and handle. She breathed heavily. Blood still dripped from her and onto the linoleum floor.

"I'll clean it up after I shower," she mumbled when Vulpes joined her.

He was clearly upset with her, "You still deliberately disobeyed me."

"So what? Punish me then. Lash me? Kill me? Fuck me like the _profligate_ whore I am and then throw me to the recruits?"

"What are you talking about!?"

"I disobeyed you, as you said. You said that if I ever disobeyed you'd punish me. So do it," she seemed to demand, nose crinkling as she spoke in disgust. The frumentarius wasn't going to. In fact, he was completely struck and sickened at the thought of it. He could tell she was afraid under her skin.

"I'm not doing any of that. I just want to make sure that you understand that you did exactly what I told you not to do and that I am disappointed, though it was simply to protect yourself. You're defiant and I cannot have that."

"Oh?" Mila removed her dress and it fell to the floor. A bloody pool drenched the floor around it. She flung her boots off. Vulpes just gawked at her from his chair at the table. She was flustered and clearly not in the right state of mind . . . and stripped to her under-garments. "Understood then. I'll clean this all up and start your supper. I need to wash this degenerate filth off of me first."

Vulpes chuckled, "You sound like me now. I still have no idea how you knew he'd be armed."

"Neither do I. Just had a hunch," the girl smirked and walked off to the bathroom, dark crimson dripping from the tips of her hair, forming a trail behind her: like bread crumbs. He heard her fill up the tub twice within ten minutes. She emerged looking as she did in her first week as his servant: clean and proper, hair in a tight bun.

"Sit. Worry about the mess later," he ordered peacefully.

"The blood will stain the floor," she said, picking up the ruined dress. She moved into the kitchen and dropped it in the sink.

"Mila, sit. The floor is already stained."

"Fine." She sat across from him like usual.

"Where is the knife you had?"

"My belt loop. I'm assuming you want it, sir?"

"No. It's best you keep it with you. I am not expecting anyone to attack you. But, I couldn't help notice some of my own men eying you like animals."

"As did I. No one is going to touch me. If they do, they lose their hands."

"Good. You're not hurt, are you?"

Mila snorted, "Hell, no. My knees are scraped: my own doing. But he didn't injure me. I would've had him decapitated if he did."

"I would have intervened before he could have injured you. What did he do to you, anyhow?"

"He gave the order to have my family killed after I wrecked him. My mother, my father, three of my siblings, my husband . . ."

"You were _married_?" Vulpes asked raising his eyebrows, surprised. She was so young and delicate. She could've had a child. She could've been with child and not known it. It was a strange concept. Then again, the tribals very rarely lived past the age of forty or so. They married and had children young to make up for the loss. "You have my sympathy."

"Husband to be," she quickly corrected herself.

"Nonetheless. I forgot how young the tribes marry their girls off."

"I'm not that young. My oldest sister was fourteen, maybe thirteen, when she married," Mila said and shrugged. "No one wanted me. It was arranged. I'm an old spinster compared to the other girls from my tribe."

"Perhaps," he pondered, wondering why anyone would simply not want a tall, attractive, submissive, yet fiery girl like Mila. "It's still quite young according to Legion standards. Girls here marry in their late teens: more mature mentally and physically. They're better able to carry and care for children."

"I don't even think I would want to raise a child," Mila sighed, horrified at the thought.

"That is for the Gods to decide. If you bear a child, they see you fit," he suggested, trying not so sound as though he was interested in making her his mistress and impregnating her with an heir. He laughed and cringed at the same time inside. "If not, the priestesses may take you in."

"Priestesses? Are they the women who were wearing those white dresses?"

"Yes. It's symbolic. Purity. They've never been touched by a man, and never will be. If they lay with a man, they are executed or banished."

"Why? _That's horrible._"

"Again. It's all symbolic. They take an oath to remain pure as a priestess. If they break that oath, there are consequences. Betraying the Gods is not something we take lightly. Only the priestess of Juno is allowed to be taken as a wife, usually by the priest of Jupiter. She doesn't wear white: more elaborate textiles, as she is the head priestess."

"Oh," she muttered as she shifted, "Their dresses are _beautiful_."

Vulpes saw an intense want in her eyes, "White is only worn by the priestesses. I don't think you would want to join their coven. I can arrange to have another colored dress made for you that is _similar_, like the dresses the other women wear."

"Wha—_really?_" she looked at him awkwardly. She definitely hadn't been expecting him to offer to purchase a dress so intricate and beautiful, just for her.

"Yes. There is no reason to have my servant girl moping around because she can't have a pretty dress unless she joins a covenant of highly religious women who are sworn to remain pure and untouched by men, violence, and all other vices."

"I—I really don't know what to say. I can make one myself out of a sheet or something. I can sew. You really don't have to. I wasn't asking for one," she rambled shyly. Vulpes quickly shushed her.

"No. But, I am offering as an act of kindness," he explained, pulling his goggles from his eyes and letting them hang around his neck. He secretly wanted to see her one of the long, delicate dresses: layers of sheer fabric whipping around her ankles, bare back, the sides of her breasts ever so slightly showing. He quickly forced his own motives out of his thoughts and continued, "I will arrange for a seamstress to visit at noon sometime this week to take measurements. Maybe have a shawl or cloak and hood made as well. Perhaps Saturday. And, if you'd like, I can have fabrics ordered for you to continue with your own sewing. It could be a lucrative job, sewing clothing for our military and citizens, if you choose to do so. You may make garments for yourself."

"I, uhm, tha—"

"No need," he raised his hand and interrupted, "seeing as I _technically_ own you, I must keep my '_belongings'_ satisfied and looking presentable. Your only dress is now covered in blood and guts and dirt. It's probably not salvageable. I can't have you running around in those little shorts either."

"I guess," Mila agreed, looking down at her hands. "I, just—"

Vulpes flashed her a wolfish grin, "I'm _starving_. You can say your thanks by starting dinner, and then cleaning the floor."

* * *

**Fun facts: Roman priestesses (specifically Vestal Virgins, priestesses to the goddess of the hearth, Vestal) were extremely important. They were actually executed if they had romantic relations with anyone or let the Vestal fire burn out. A few did run away after they had been caught and some were acquitted of their crime. Most accepted their fate and were executed, and from what I remember, they were buried alive because it was the only way to kill them without spilling their blood, as it was sacred. Any violence against them resulted in the offender being executed. **

**There's a huge, long article about it on Wikipedia, if you're interested on learning more. :3**


	7. Chapter 7

**Finally updating. On another note, I have a poll open on my profile relating to a Fallout 3 fic in the works. I would really appreciate your opinions! I don't want to start writing it without knowing what is more in demand!**

* * *

It was far too early for there to be rapping on the door on a Saturday. Though Mila had been relieved of her duties on this day, she rose from her bed to answer. She took a quick peak into the room across from her, briefly seeing Vulpes dressing. It was strange for him to be dawning himself in full uniform on the weekends. She shrugged and continued to the front room. Knocking again. She slowly opened the door. A girl, not much older than her, stood in the yard with a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. She was dressed in bright gold and red robes, falling to the dirt. Her hair was kept up in braids, neatly wrapped around her head like a crown.

"My Lady, I've been sent to deliver a dress from the seamstress," she said, holding out the package.

"Really? Oh! I'm so excited. Come in, why don't you?" Mila exclaimed as she ushered the girl in. She sat the girl down at the table, then sat opposite from her and began to untie the twine. "So, what's your name?"

"Uhm—I—I'm Cassia," she stammered uncomfortably.

"Mila. I'm sorry, the last time I talked to another woman was last week, and she wasn't very sociable. It's lonely here sometimes."

"Yes . . . the Madame isn't exactly . . . kind."

"Clearly," Mila concluded in agreeance as she pulled the long, silky red dress from the paper. "Oh, this is beautiful! Come, help me put it on. I have no idea how these work."

"I—really must be going, miss."

"Hush. I can send you back with a message! I really do need help . . ."

With that, the two girl scampered into Mila's room. Vulpes caught a quick glance at them and shook his head, humored, before heading out to the living room. Behind the closed doors, Mila fumbled with the long dress, untying ribbons of fabric. She pulled it up over her body. Cassia instructed her where to tie the ribbons. Within time, the dress was secured and draped elegantly onto Mila. She studied herself in the cracked mirrors hung over her dresser and grinned. She dashed out into the living room, fabric teasing her ankles. It was light and made her feel like a bird ready to take flight. She found her owner sitting on the sofa and twirled in front of him, letting the dress flare out at her knees, forming a large circle of blurred red. The other girl giggled, noticing the stunned look on Vulpes' face.

"This is absolutely beautiful. Thank you so, _so_ much, Sir," she chirped happily as she played with the fabric. It was exactly what Vulpes pictured in the seclusion of his mind. Nearly sheer, hanging on her thin frame, clinging to just the right spots to accentuate her feminine features. He took pride in the fact that she was young and pliable. He could mold her into whatever woman he chose her to be. He knew she'd spend her time studying the pattern late into the night and creating her own out of the gold and blue and plum coloured fabrics he'd ordered as well, adding her own twists to the designs. She'd drive him crazy with her creations: more than the damage she'd already done.

"You're very much welcome," he replied, standing. "I am leaving on a reconnaissance mission for the week. I'd like the house cleaned thoroughly. Tidy up my room as well, wash the laundry, restock the pantry. You have permissions to venture around. _Stay away from the recruit camp._ I cannot stress that enough. Also, be expecting another delivery. Your fabrics should be ready in a few days. With that, vale."

He slipped his coyote hood onto his head and left without another word. Mila didn't even have the chance to say, "Yes, sir," or, "Goodbye." She worried. What if he died? She would be sent to another man who probably wouldn't be as kind as her current owner. He definitely wouldn't be as young and relatable to, and probably far less attractive.

"Well," she began, "what should we do now?"

Cassia said with hesitation, "I have to return to the tailoring building."

"May I come with you?"

"I don't know how Madame will feel about that . . ."

"And I don't see why she'd oppose. Let's head out. Vulpes said that I could work as a seamstress if I'd like."

"Really?" Cassia inquired as they strolled through the bustling encampments. "And you call him by his true name?"

"Sometimes. I was really surprised when he gave me so much freedom. It's strange."

"It really is. I mean, I have as much freedom as I'm allowed, but, no offence, you were captured as a slave!"

"That's why I was shocked. It happened real quick. I was a slave, and then a servant, and now just a normal person again, but with servant duties."

"It is nice though, being allowed to just do whatever."

"I can't do _everything_. Most of the time I have to ask permission. Sometimes he says no. I'm usually not allowed outside of the yard. I'm hoping that if—Madame? I guess that's what I have to call her. Anyway, I'm hoping she'll let me work."

"She should. We need all the help we can get."

The two reached a small building that was mostly boarded up, with the exception of a few intact windows and the door. They walked inside and turned into an office room: messy with papers and unfinished projects. At a desk sat an aging woman with a slight hunch. She averted her eyes from her sewing to look at the girls.

"Cassia, you took a while. Who's this? Oh. Nevermind. I have another delivery for you to make."

"I'll head out as soon as possible. Uhm—this is Mila. She'd like to talk to you about work."

"What kind of work?" she asked sternly.

Mila chimed in, "I'd like to help with any tailoring, if possible."

"Do you have permissions?"

"I do, ma'am."

"_Written permission?"_

"Well, no. Vul—my owner—specifically told me that I could work part-time as a seamstress. He is away currently."

"Ah, you're that servant girl who he bought that dress for. I remember now. Spent quite a lot of money on you. I don't see why. I think he also put in a request for a shawl, dyed cloth, and something else that I can't quite remember. Ah, that was it: linens. Unimportant. Anyhow, you can't just immediately start making tunics for the recruits. You have no skills."

Mila was quite confused now. The head seamstress really didn't need to hint at the cost of her clothing, and whatever else he had requested for her. Hiding her embarrassment, she replied to the woman with confidence, "I've been making ceremonial dresses for my previous tribe since the age of twelve, ma'am."

"I'll need you to bring me a sample of what you can do. I want to see your needlework. Until then, I can only give you a job dying fabrics."

"That's fine."

"Alright. You can start tomorrow then. But please, do not wear that dress. You'll dirty it."

Mila left the tailoring building with a sense of accomplishment. She'd made a friend and secured a small job, though for the time being it was dying cloth crimson. She also felt giddy having made her owner squirm on the inside. She was getting under his skin, and she liked that she had the subliminal power to do so. It was turning into a power struggle.

He had control over her actions, for the most part.

She was slowly gaining control of his mind.


	8. Chapter 8

Mila had absolutely no time to rest properly. Between cleaning, running errands, and working at the tailoring building, she took small naps and maybe had four hours of rest at night. She figured that she'd have to get used to it: those were her duties as a servant, and now a dyer.

"Fuck," she mumbled under her breath, looking at her hands. They were slowly turning red. They cracked and bled. She had blisters from rubbing the fabric vigorously against her stations washboard. She didn't have the time to bandage them. They'd turn red as well and fall off into the bottom of the tub. She watched the clock, dreaming of the day she'd be able to do things on her own terms: the day her owner let her free. She then realized that the possibility of that happening was very slim and continued to dip tunics into the hot, ruddy water filled with chemicals.

"Mila, shift's over," Cassia called from the doorway. Mila quickly hung the last of her tunics on the drying and dried her hands on her pants.

"Thank heavens. I need to get out of here," she said, quickly walking out of the building

"You don't think he'll be mad with you, will he?"

"Who? Vulpes? No. At least I hope not."

"So . . . uhm, can I ask you something—personal?"

"Shoot."

"Has he taken you to bed?!"

"O—oh dear, no!" Mila stuttered, trying to shield her blushing face. There was absolutely no ways she'd let that happen . . . unless—no. Never.

"Sorry, sorry," Cassia giggled, "I'm just really curious. You'd think a man of his status would—"

"Have _you_ been bedded?" the servant interrupted.

"As interesting as the whole thing sounds, I haven't. I can't, actually."

"How so?"

"I'm being sworn as a priestess in a few weeks. You know how that all is."

"Good luck. I don't think I could take on that responsibility."

"There's going to be a huge ceremony and festival the weekend of. Maybe you'll be allowed to go!"

"If it's as big as you're saying it is, I'll probably be brought along with Vulpes, but kept on a short leash. Shit, I think he's back," she announced, seeing the lights of the little house glowing through the windows.

"I'll talk to you Monday?"

"Yes. _Vale_, Cassia."

Mila ran toward the house and flung the door open. But, he was nowhere to be seen. She sighed in relief and began prepping their supper. Maize, noodles, Cram, a little pepper and salt. It would do. The pan sizzled and steamed, flooding the room with a sweet aroma. As she shifted the ingredients with a spatula, she caught a quick glimpse of her owner from the corner of her eye, propped against the fridge with a soda in hand. Mila spooned the contents of the pan into two bowls and set them on the table. She looked over to Vulpes finally: shirtless, bandaged, but composed.

"What happened? Are you alright?" she questioned frantically, pacing toward him.

He lifted his hand to stop her, "I'm perfectly fine."

"Did you get proper medical attention?"

"The best I could do for myself. But really, I'm alright."

"But what happened?"

"You sure are asking a lot of questions when I'm the one who should be interrogating you."

"I can answer all of your questions for you right now. As you've seen already, the house is now flawless, we have enough food to last us through another apocalypse, and I've been working at the tailoring building, seeing as you gave me permission to do so. That is why I was not here when you arrived. I've gotten my fabrics and shawl, and your linens. The laundry is obviously done, and your supper is sitting right in front of you."

"Don't get snippy with me, girl."

"I'm not. You need to let me see the damage though."

"It's just a few scratches. Keep to yourself, you ungrateful brat," he barked as he sat at the table.

Mila felt her throat tighten. Her eyes felt like they were going to pop open and ooze. She did as he said, and remained silent for the rest of the night. They didn't look at, or even acknowledge, each other. Becoming a priestess started to sound like a vacation. Even being whipped to death sounded better than having to stay on the homestead's premises. She had no idea whether she was in trouble, or if Vulpes was just angry due to his injury. Not too long after he retired to his room, Mila began to gather the glass bottles he so carelessly left around. She carefully set them in a bag and silently stepped outside. From there, she moved to the side of the yard and sat on the ground. One by one, she grabbed the bottles and threw them at the side of the house. They shattered and dusted the ground with an almost glittery appearance. The crashes echoed throughout the air.

"Miss, is everything alright?"

Mila slowly turned her head to the voice. A few feet from her, a man in full Decanus regalia stood: gun over his shoulder, machete at his side.

"Actually," she started, "yes. Everything is fine. I'm sure if you spent an hour tossing bottles at a wall, you'd feel like sunshine."

The man let out a muffled laugh from beneath his mask, "You should go inside."

"So I can be scolded by Mr. Happy for doing absolutely nothing? No, thanks."

"In case he didn't tell you, he had to put down one of his men last week. NCR spy. The profligate attacked him."

"Oh? And I watched my village burn to the ground a couple of months ago," she snapped, standing with another bottle. She whipped it at the wall without taking her eyes off the Decanus. He lifted his arms slightly in a mock surrender before bending down to pick up a bottle, mirroring her action.

"Guess we all deal with our anger in our own ways. Name's Cyprian."

"Mila."

"Head inside and pay no mind to Vulpes. He'll simmer down quickly. If you ever need to talk about your situation, or break things, I'm down in the largest tent by the recruit encampment. Goodnight."

"_Bonum noctem,"_ Mila squeaked, watching him strut up and over the hill toward her "forbidden zone." She could disobey Vulpes and risk her head. Then again, she could use her job as an excuse to visit the place. She wasn't even sure this man was trustworthy. At the moment, she knew nothing of him but his name and the sound of his muffled voice. She sure wasn't going back inside. Exhausted to the point where she was hallucinating images of burning bodies piled upon each other, she stumbled around until she threw herself against the back wall of the house and slid down onto the dirt. She struggled to keep her eyes open, and she knew that by spending the night outside, she could play on her owner's sympathy . . . or he'd be even more infuriated. No matter the outcome, she curled up in the dirt and closed her eyes.


End file.
